Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads,
And gives no hope of exit final, free.
WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES
In the forenoon's restful quiet,
When the boys are off at school,
When the window lights are shaded
And the chimney-corner cool,
Then the old man seeks his armchair,
Lights his pipe and settles back;
Falls a-dreaming as he draws it